Assassin's Creed: Honour
by The Anime Sage
Summary: 'La'a shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine.' Indeed these words are true as Desmond is taken by Abstergo, helpless and confused... so they think. Trained by 'The Mentor', he is a fully-fledged assassin with countless years of experience at his disposal now diving back into the past in the shoes of his ancestor. He still has one goal in mind and he will succeed.
1. The Fall of a Master

**Chapter 1: The Fall of a Master**

~ Bastard! – Desmond Miles

* * *

It was night and the summer sun had long since gone beyond the horizon and the new moon was out, obscuring those under it with an inky darkness. The forest, a dark maze of trees that shifted suddenly as the wind blew through it making the branches sway like drunken dancers. The cold air filled the dense forest as the nocturnal creatures chattered before they raced back into their holes or flew away in the black sky, the sound of crunching leaves and the snapping twigs permeated the area and a sense of foreboding grew within the young man that ran in the woods. Oxygen filled the man's being as he ran faster to get away from them.

Desmond kept running, he didn't know how long but he knew he had to keep going. He had to get away. His legs carried him through the forest, he tried to be as quiet as possible but he was found out. Shouts could be heard. _Desmond! Desmond!_ His dad yelling after him, that made him run faster, quicker through the woods. The adrenaline was pumping in his veins now, the sudden rush made him faster.

'_Damn it's so fucking dark!'_ He could see the lights from the torches cutting away at the darkness. His training was paying off though he was avoiding them easily. _Desmond, where are you?_ His mother called out to him now. He hesitated in his next step, an internal battle that seemed to wage forever but only lasted for a second and the resolve to escape won over.

'_I'm sorry Mom.' _

'_No, I wanted this; I wanted a new life, my own life and live my own way. He decided this when he turned sixteen he kept running, he had to escape, away from the Farm, away from the conspiracy, away from that life.'_ He wouldn't go back to that place, no, he would run and continue running...forever.

The forest seemed endless but the shouts lessened. He still ran though because if he stopped then they would find him.

Desmond slid down a hill, he stopped near a stream and buckets of sweat rolled down his face. Desmond's breathing was erratic and his clothes drenched in sweat, walking clumsily towards the stream, he cupped his hands and scooped out some water, he drank until his breathing was calmer, now that his heart didn't try to jack hammer its way out and the burning ache in his legs lessened to a more bearable extent. Taking out his canteen, he filled it up before walking downwards of the stream which eventually led to a river and the river led to an old access road.

_Alright, escape the Farm, check, get some water, check and get in contact with civilisation, still working on that. Okay, I escaped the Farm and have my freedom now what the hell am I gonna do next?_

* * *

The sun was bearing down as he kept walking down the old access road. _Jesus it's hot!_ There were vast amount of green everywhere and this didn't help Desmond. The heat was starting to affect him now, the green leaves of the trees started to blur with the brown dirt road, wiping the sweat from his brow and blinking his eyes to bring clarity to his surroundings, he walked. He walked for hours and hours. Nothing for miles, trees, trees and guess what more fucking trees. Now he was regretting running away, there was no food and worst of all no water as he had drunken all of it from his canteen, the heatwave making him sweat twice as much as he drank. _At this rate, I'm not gonna make it._ Pulling himself together, he continued to trek through the wilderness, uncertain of his fate that lies ahead.

* * *

Night time came and he felt relief wash over him as the cool air flowed through his searing body, and at last he found a clearing with some water. Bringing the container he brought along, he filled it with the clean water from the nearby mountain stream. Taking a few mouthfuls of water he managed to crawl his way between a flat stone and a tree, slipping his jacket off, he sat near the stone still warm from the sun and lied there, resting his eyes upon the night. Millions of stars twinkled in the night sky, a sea of glittering diamonds, sparkling diamonds that danced in the blanket of space and Desmond wondered how he had never looked at them before, and the view was stunning. He should have looked at it sooner, keeping him entranced and his eyelids felt heavy and soon Morpheus claimed him to his realm of dreams.

* * *

The dusty wind hit Desmond's face as he trudged on through 'the badlands', the hot sun was high in the sky, his clothes was dry from the blistering winds and the water in his canteen, well the definition of a dry well would be applicable. _Jeez never thought this place could look so dead._ He kept trying to go on but he stumbled in his step and the fall seemed to sap all his energy if the sun was hot now then it was scorching when he fell. _No, I can't die, not like this_. His eyes seemed to be heavy as if closing them would provide some comfort for him but it wouldn't. The wind halted for a solitary moment as a figure rippled in the distance as Desmond could make out a silhouette in the heatwave but passed it off as a hallucination. Blinking, the man in the distance seemed closer now, much closer. _The heat must be really getting to me_. Blinking his eyes again, the last thing he saw was the man that was now by his side, his face hidden by a beaked hood and his white coat swaying in the wind.

* * *

He looked up at the white ceiling, in confusion, rising from his bed. Wait? This wasn't his room. He could see that the room he was in was sterile, fluorescent lights hung on the ceiling that flickered on and off occasionally, medical equipment was laid on the table across from him and from what he could see there were traces of blood on the wall adjacent to him. He suddenly had a feeling that he was in a very bad slasher film.

Staring around worriedly he was about to get out of bed when the door opened and he screamed to high hell (later he would never admit that he screamed like a girl) when the door slammed open. There in the doorway was a man with a bloodied apron, a hockey mask with blood stains and a butcher knife in his hands that was currently dripping the red liquid. He kept screaming when his supposed killer started to laugh hysterically dropping the butcher knife and banging his fist on the floor.

"I'm sorry I couldn't resist screwing with you," Pulling up the mask, Desmond was met with the face of the bastard who scared him. The man had blonde hair and blue eyes. He thought that the man before him was an ass but it was five minutes that he met the guy. He was going to reserve judgement.

"Hey kid if you don't know I'm the guy that saved your life," the blonde smiled at him. "The name is Naruto Uzumaki." He stuck out his hand with that shit-eating grin on his face.

"Desmond, Desmond Miles," He clasped Naruto's hand as he steadily stood up from the medical bed.

Desmond and Naruto walked out of the medical facility they were in, taking in the landscape before him. The dry, barren desert was blazing before them, hot cracks on the ground from the heat but he could see that the area they were in it was cut off with fresh brown earthly soil. There were two rows of big satellite dishes that every few minutes it moved slightly or did a complete 180. He could see a field of solar panels that was directed at the sun and a huge strange black tower that was oddly shaped in the centre of the field. There were other small buildings that looked advanced. Really advanced. He had no clue where they were only that it seemed hot and dry.

Desmond was amazed surprisingly that they haven't rusted.

"Desmond, I heard that you ran away from the Farm. Care to tell me why?" Naruto never broke his stride, amused at the situation if the indication that Desmond noticeably stiffened.

"How do you know? Desmond eyed Naruto suspiciously. They arrived in a warehouse where Desmond's eyes widened at the all the weapons in the building. There were handguns, machine guns, rifles, swords, knives, explosives and some kind of suit.

"Holy shit, is that a tank?" His head was spinning at the sight, who the hell was this guy?

"I have my ways." Naruto took an M1911 from the wall of weapons and started to polish. With the barrel pointed towards Desmond. He began to sweat a little. "So tell me how you escaped?"

"Through the front door," Desmond deadpanned. Naruto stared blankly at him before laughing loudly.

"Okay now tell me why?" Once Nate started to control himself, he put the pistol back and sat on the tank.

"I escaped because... I didn't believe that it was real. I thought that they were making up, being conspiracy freaks. The Templars and Assassins, I didn't believe in any of that shit. I just wanted to be normal, so I just walked out."

"So you don't believe it huh?" Nodding his head he slumped back against the wall, a heavy burden lifted from his shoulders.

"The way I see it Desmond is that you have two choices." Confused, Desmond stared as Naruto took a bottle and shook two pills, one red and one blue.

"If you want to know the truth there is the blue pill..."

"What's the blue pill do?" Desmond eyed the blue pill anxiously.

"You will forget us meeting and I will dump back in the desert with your canteen of water. You will forget me, forget this place and forget that I will be watching you or you can take the red pill..."

Nate grinned mysteriously at him. "And you will see how deep this rabbit hole goes."

Desmond sat there his back against the wall, his head in his hands as he contemplated the choices he was given. On one hand he could always live a normal life that he wanted but on the hand he would see if this shit was actually real.

Gazing intently at Naruto, he reached out for the red pill before hesitating as he stared at the cerulean eyes that bore into him before taking the red pill. Nate gave him his canteen of water, swallowing the pill as the liquid tickled his throat.

"Okay, get ready to fall unconscious in 5...4...3...2," Nate looked at his watch as Desmond's eyes widened.

"Wait what?!" His vision turned black as he saw the grinning face of Naruto. _Bastard!_

Waking up groggily, he sat up on the comfortable bed and blearily opened his eyes at the sun peaking over the horizon. He scanned the room that he was in and saw that there was a desk with a computer that looked state of the art, a bookcase next to it that was bare but a few books and a wardrobe.

He shook his head again trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. He got up from his comfortable bed albeit reluctantly when the door open and he was met with yet again the blonde smiling bastard before him. His smile disappeared as he turned serious.

"We got a lot to do and we need to spend our time wisely." Desmond prepared himself for the hell that was training.

* * *

_There were... people, fountain, vases, rugs, walking forward, faceless people, blood, target, he felt himself being pulled from all directions. _

_He-He thought...F-f-felt..._

_Anger, hurt, betrayal, how could he do this to us, how could he betray the brotherhood, the searing anger burned through his body and the cold sorrow filled his mind as he felt overwhelmed. Drowning, drowning, drowning..._

'Breathe, Desmond, breath!'

"We've got a problem. I can't anchor him to the memory; too much psychological trauma, he's rejecting the memory. He's retreating." A slightly feminine panicked voiced was heard.

"Desmond I need you to try and relax." It was a calmer voice this time, too calm.

"Let me try and stabilize him." He could feel pain through his mind.

'Shit, what was happening?'

"Focus. Listen to the sound of my voice. Recognize that what you're seeing isn't real, just a picture of the past. It can't hurt you." He felt like a spike was being driven into mind.

"Damn it. It's not working."

"Give it a moment, Miss Stillman. He'll adjust; the first time is never easy."

_Armies, soldiers, hidden blade, king, fortress, farm, creed, the pain was becoming more intense. He felt himself being restrained._

"We're losing him."

"That's enough, Miss Stillman!"

_He was walking through a crowd of faceless people, hearing noises, the clamour of women talking loudly and at the same time there was only silence as he could see a merchant shouting but only his lips moved and no sound came out. Confused, he kept walking through the crowd until he was roughly pushed by someone, turning around he saw a faceless man in armour, his body was moving of its own now, running, everything around him seemed to waver and the world shattered._

"We need to pull him out. Now."

"All right Desmond, we're going to try and bring you out now."

Desmond's eyes snapped open, his head jerking up to pull himself up to a sitting position, only his forehead careened into a glass panel over his head. Air sucked into his lungs, a thin sheet of sweat covered his forehead and his arms flung weakly out to the edges of the table; a blank ceiling stared at him and there were voices.

"There? See? I told you he'd be fine."

An old man, with a grizzled beard and hair entered in his line of sight.

'Oh you asshole!' Was Desmond's first thought.

"Bastard!" Desmond cursed, less disoriented now, breathing in air like it was going out of style, half of his mind in reality and the half in-in...The animus.

"Now, now," the man said, his voice, smooth and pacifying. "I just saved your life." A familiar voice, he heard from somewhere before.

"Saved my life?!" he growled, struggling to sit up. His muscles weren't as weak as before, the disorientation was fading. He felt himself, more in control now, swinging his legs over the edge of the slab of glass and steel. It was a piece of crap compared to the one he used. He took a look at the man in front of him. He recognised the man. From the files that he read, he was Warren Vidic, Head of research for Abstergo, of genetics and the animus project. He was also a member of the inner sanctum as well. He would have to be wary of the old man.

"You fucking kidnapped me and strapped me into that thing," Desmond yelled, playing the part of a prisoner.

The old man lifted an eyebrow, his face the picture of amusement and superiority. "Animus," he filled in. "That 'thing' is the Animus."

Desmond didn't know whether to laugh or cuss at the old man. Likely both but he knew what the machine was, he needed to keep calm and fulfil the mission. "Look I don't even know you people alright. If you let me go, I'll forget this ever happened and promise not to break your legs."

The stupid decrepit old man continued in a composed neutral voice with a smile on his face, ignoring the threat of Desmond doing bodily harm to him. "I'm sorry, Mr Miles but you have information that we need and I'm afraid that I can't let you go." he said smoothly.

"Information?" Desmond retorted. Scoffing at him, "I'm a bartender! What do you need to know, how to mix a martini?"

The old man's face fell flat, the humour gone from his voice and his tone suddenly became much more menacing. "We know who you are, Mr. Miles," he said in cold tone. "We know what you are."

Outwardly his face still had the blank emotionless mask, inwardly 'Ah shit!' finding the floor to be more interesting than the man standing in front of him he managed a fake shaky response, "I don't know what you're talking about." Well, he could always pretend with backup story A.

The menacing old man's eyes narrowed. "Don't play coy with me, there isn't time. You're an assassin. And whether you realize it or not, you have what my employers want, locked away in that head of yours."

"I'm not an assassin," he grounded out bitterly. "Not anymore."

Damn he was one good actor. He knew that he was in a bad position now but he had a weapon that every assassin has at their disposal. Deception. He needed them to be relaxed and to let their guard down. He needed information from them, about their goals now. Knowledge would give him the power to act. Knowledge was freedom. For him and for humanity.

"Yes," the old prick drew out, his smugness swelling, "your file indicated as much, something about an escape."

... Now that was scary. They knew about his escape but what more did they know? Have they been watching him? No they weren't that good.

"Most fortunate for us," the old fart added, all slimy again.

Desmond replied calmly. "What do you want from me?"

"For you to do as you're told," the lab coat said. "The Animus will allow us to locate what we need. Once we have it, you'll be free to go."

Fucking liar. He knew them, they would use him until they had everything then they would kill him.

Desmond's eyes could swear bloody murder at him. Suppressing a growl, he was going to go in but nobody said anything about go in without kicking and screaming. "I am not fucking going back!"

But the old man brushed the imaginary dust off the lapel of his lab coat, his smooth voice hard and menacing again. "You should watch your language; Mr Miles or we'll induce a coma and continue our work when we're done you'll be left to die." He stared with hard, almost impatient eyes at Desmond to make his point; not that he needed to. The Assassin knew he was in a corner so he was forced to comply, for now.

Taking his silence as an answer, the old shit smiled again. "Truthfully," he said, "the only reason you're still conscious is because the approach saves us time."

Desmond reached out for a kind of barb. "And the reason why my foot isn't shoved up your ass is because I'm more creeped out about the stuff you're spouting."

The good doctor continued as if he didn't hear the words, "Lie down."

Out of options - this time- Desmond complied.

The visor slid out from somewhere over his field of vision, a stylized triangle, maybe an A, the well-known symbol of Abstergo the pharmaceutical company, appeared as the system started to boot up. He looked to the blond, discreet up to this point, but she didn't meet his eyes as she continued to tap away at a keyboard, a small smile still tugging at her lips. A name popped as he recognised her from somewhere, Stillman. Lucy Stillman. Ah a spy. He met her awhile back in his cover as a bartender at Bad Weather.

He felt pressure in the back of his skull, right where it met the spinal cord, and the machine hummed underneath him, making the oddly shaped table vibrate slightly. Heat emanated from somewhere. Desmond couldn't understand how they were able to come up with this, his face twisted into one of confusion. The grizzled lab coat saw the confusion on his face and mistook it as if Desmond didn't know how it worked, and in a grand gesture of false compassion, he explained.

"Memories. Recollections of past events. Pictures and sensations and emotions captured in the brain. But while personal memories were stored in the brain, ancestral memories were imprinted in DNA. The reason birds could migrate, bears knew when to hibernate, how any species always seemed to mate in spring, and all of it could be traced to genetic memory. Instinct was, in point of fact, memories of previous generations of animals, the living species playing out what hundreds of generations before were telling it to do - absent the requisite experience. The doctor had spent thirty years studying it. DNA was more than a glorified parts-list for the human body; it was an archive of experience from previous genetic donors. The Animus, somehow, decoded the DNA and constructed the memories in real time, projecting it to several different media - Desmond's sensory centre of the brain, for example, to an MPEG file recording, for another, and apparently several other ways, too; for further decoding of course."

"But there's a problem," the hot blond said, finally speaking.

His eyes finally met hers; he looked at her meaningly tapping his fingers on the table which could be mistaken for agitation was in fact a code. 'You're not alone.' He smiled in a charming manner from his position, she quickly looked away as she got the signal clearly remembering who this man was before her, turning to the screen and tapping a command.

"Here's the memory we're trying to access," she said, and the glass panel, filled with loading images up to that point, suddenly displayed a long string of DNA straightening out to form a line of bars, almost like a horizontal ladder. One bar on the far right glowed white, highlighted. Above it was a small string of text: memory locked.

"Unfortunately, every time we try to access the memory, your mind withdraws."

_He who increasth knowledge, increseath sorrow._

Desmond frowned.

"You lack the confidence to step into your ancestor's body."

Her face changed again, a micro-expression that he caught. She was worried. Was it about him going insane like Clay, god rest his soul. He was about to continue that train of thought but she was still talking. "That's what happened earlier. You got knocked out of the target memory and pushed back to a more stable state."

He glanced at the old man and decided that she was infinitely more approachable about the subject. "Ok... Why?" he asked, hoping that she wasn't going to act all high and mighty on him on her part. He had enough of that from Doctor Dickhead.

She shrugged. "It's your subconscious. When people undergo hypnosis to relive traumatic events, they, too, resist the memory and have to start farther back. Your mind is doing the same thing. In order to relive it you, like they, have to be eased in." She looked away again. He was sure now that a flash of guilt was across her face. She was still feeling guilty about Clay. He reassured her again with the same coded message. 'I'll be fine.' She noticeably relaxed at that and continued. "Even then there can be problems."

Being the co-operative man that he was, he asked, "So... how do you fix it?"

"We start at an earlier memory, one you _can_ synchronize with, and move forward from there." She offered a small, almost sad smile, and the micro-expression crossed her features again. "You'll get used to it," she smiled lightly from her position now confidence was in the smile. She turned and left Desmond's field of vision. "This is the closest we can get," she said, one of the DNA bars highlighting, "I'll upload the tutorial program now."

Abstergo had a freakin' _tutorial_? He wondered if he was in some kind of messed up game.

* * *

Standing around in hazy room of white fog, the disorientation of entering the animus was less intense as he was starting to get used to it now. It was better than being thrown in some crazy situation with blood and the smell of piss around him but the blood wasn't all that unfamiliar.

Flexing his hands he could feel all his digits react except for the on his left hand as he stared at the missing ring finger. His face slowly morphed into one of morbid fascination as realisation dawned on him that he was _missing _a finger. _Calm down, it's just a virtual program, it isn't real, it isn't real._ Repeating the mantra in the hopes of calming down, his heart stopped pumping its way out of his chest and slowly settled in the familiar two-beat pattern.

Closely examining it he found that the ring finger was a stub, cut at a small knuckle and only barely poked out of fingerless gloves. He tugged at the glove trying to see it better. Skin had folded over the amputation; the scarring was clean and healed but not yet faded with time.

Instinctively flexing his hand _'snick'_ the hidden blade appeared as it suddenly sprouted from his wrist. He wasn't surprised that he had the blade. He just had to find out which ancestor he was. And why he couldn't easily access their memories.

Looking at the blade closely, he analysed it scrutinisingly, he found it in good condition as the blade easily sheathed in and out of its holster. Strapped on his arm was a metal bracer and he could see that the knuckles of his gloves were studded for extra damage if he wanted to punch someone.

Patting himself, he looked down to find himself wearing an interesting sort of white robes, fitted with throwing knives on his right shoulders, the front waist and his left boot, a steel short sword strapped to his back and a longsword with an eagle head as the pommel and the cross guards shaped into eagle wings strapped at his side. Everything seemed to be made of some kind of cotton - he wasn't an expert - except for a silk looking red sash, mostly hidden by no less than three layers of leather belts and pouches full of supplies. A gauntlet was on his other arm, and leather shin guards were strapped to his legs. He was wearing a hood that tipped like an eagle's beak and his robes had elongated coattails.

"Ah Purgatory Simulator that's what I needed," he muttered. He stood there in a thinking position until it dawned on him. _Holy shit I'm the fucking Lebron James of the Assassins! Altair Ibn-La'fucking Ahad._

_"It's your avatar,"_ a feminine, disembodied voice said. Desmond startled, looking around. He was surrounded by off-white fog, drifting all around him. He could see no edges or walls, just a lot of white fog, space and- is that code? He recognized protein structures and bits of algebraic formulas and Greek symbols and other pieces, though none of it seemed connected in any way.

"Okay, so where am I?" he asked starting to hate the white empty space.

_"You're in the construct now,"_ she explained. _"It's a loading screen you wait in it while the Animus is buffering the DNA it's decoding. Memories are sometimes fuzzy; it isn't a perfect science, so what the Animus does is construct a simulation based on the information it finds. In other words, when this is done loading you'll find yourself at some kind of location, and then you'll have to do something to trigger a memory."_

"And how does someone trigger a memory?" asked Desmond walking around in the construct.

_"How does anyone trigger a memory?" _Doctor Dick asked. _"You can trigger it manually, of course, but that doesn't work with genetic memory. Not at first, anyway. So you'll have to do something that triggers nostalgia, which then triggers the memory. For example, that destitute bar you worked at probably holds many memories for you, and going there would trigger them. The smell of a Bloody Mary may remind you of a particular customer. The lyrics of a song may remind you of an old girlfriend. The very act of shaking out a martini could remind you of something. That is what the construct inside the Animus is for."_

"I see," he said, looking up feeling nostalgia as well being in the robes of an Assassin.

The girl replied, _"You're going back to the year eleven-ninety-one."_ *whistle* _"I don't think they were mixing martinis back then, but the act of riding horseback or the sight of a particular city square could trigger a memory. Once the Animus is done buffering, you can experiment until the memory is triggered."_

_"Might I recommend killing a few guards?"_ the old fart suggested. _"You are, after all, an assassin. I hear assassinations were very public in those days. Maybe listening to the screams of innocent men and women dying, people running from you in terror will trigger a memory."_

"Fucking dickhead," Desmond muttered. Louder, he said, "So let me get this straight. The Animus is going to put me somewhere in the past and I just wander around aimlessly until a memory is triggered?"

_"Yes."_

"Well, gee, this will be quick."

Lucy said, _"Buffering complete. Let's see what's loaded."_

And the white fog slowly transitioned. The ground at his feet became slightly uneven, everything darkened, the infinite sense of space shrank to narrow and confined. Water dripped onto his shoulder, there was the sensation of cool and damp. Torch lights in darkness, a silhouette in the distance.

Desmond blinked, sucking in a breath. This felt oddly _familiar_. He didn't have words for it.

* * *

He looked around and recognized that he was in a tunnel, narrow and recently created. The support beams looked new and lacked the rot of years spent in a damp environment. Cast iron sconces held torches. Frowning, Desmond turned around and looked behind him. Two men were at his back, one dressed exactly as he was, the other wearing the grey hood of a lower rank. _How the hell do I know that? Why do I know that?_

Desmond studied the faces, what he could see of them under the hoods. He could see that they both had similarities between them. Were they were brothers? Yes, they were brothers A-Sayf: Malik, just one rank under him; and Kadar, a journeyman, midranked. And Kadar died… wait did he?

Kadar was looking at him in awe, eyes wide and mouth parted in an O, but Malik's face was twisted into a mix of anger and concern.

_"No, there must be another way. She need not die!"_

Desmond blinked as another memory rushed into him, his hand covered in blood and him holding something so ancient and powerful.

And it felt like he was receding, he turned around vaguely back to the tunnel and there was a ma_n there so small so insignificant he was just in the way and it would hardly mean anything no one would miss him..._

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad saw the miner, a peasant. Looking around he could see no other tunnels around to bypass the probable witness. A glance behind him saw Malik, too, was eyeing other tunnels. Kadar was studying the man, eyes wide as they always were, making him look younger than he actually was. He glanced to Altaïr in suspiciously.

The boy was useless. He didn't know what to do. How did he ever get as high in rank as he was? It was obvious what had to happen.

Frown pressed into his features, Altaïr marched forward with purpose. If there were no ways around, then he would have to _make_ a way.

Malik's voice pleaded behind him, "No, there must be another way. This man need not die!"

Altaïr did not heed him, the miner was unimportant, and he was in the way. On silent feet he rushed forward, invisible even in his white robes, grabbing the man's shoulder and forcing him to his knees by kicking the back of his legs. His hidden blade released, he held the weapon high over his head, eyes calculating the best point of entry, before plunging it into the soft tissue of his neck, scraping against a major artery and penetrating deeper, behind the collarbone and ribcage, and pierced a lung. Any one of these injuries would be lethal, but Altaïr was nothing if not thorough. Blood spurt out, warm and wet, and then the miner simply fell, dead. Not even a gasp of surprise escaped him.

"An excellent kill," Kadar said, staring first at the body and then at Altair, his eyes were even wider, now, awe caressing his face. As he should, Altair supposed, he had witnessed the work of a master assassin, after all. The thought was ruined, however, when Kadar added, "Fortune favours your blade."

Altaïr was annoyed that Kadar would suggest that he corrected him, "Not fortune, skill." He grinned, then, looking at the younger man and glancing at the infuriated Malik. "Watch a while longer and you might learn something."

Kadar's face blossomed with opportunity as he thought about it, but Malik of course was quick to weed it out.

"Indeed," he said, his voice bitter and angry, "He'll teach you how to disregard everything the Master has taught us." He glared at Altair.

The master assassin glared right back; that was not the retort he was expecting, and he suddenly found himself feeling defensive. "And how would _you_ have done it?" he demanded.

Kadar watched between the two, uncertain if he should say something.

"_I_ would not have drawn attention to us," Malik said, "I would not have taken the life of an innocent." He gestured to the body at their feet, as if it were somehow distasteful. Altair failed to understand what was wrong about it. "What _I_ would have done is follow the Creed."

Anger surged through Altair. Was he suggesting...?

"'Nothing is true. Everything is permitted,' "He recited in retaliation."Understand these words: it matters _not_ how we complete our task, only that it is _done_."

Malik was already interrupting him. "But this is not the way of-"

Altair interrupted _him_. "_My_ way is better."

"Because you're the _great_ Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad." He spat out.

The two glared at each other, figurative sparks firing back and forth. Malik turned around, "I will scout ahead," Malik said, glancing at his brother and slowly turning his back. "Try not to dishonour us further," He tossed over his shoulder, his voice self-satisfied and smug. Altair glared after him, his golden eyes nearly melting the darkness around him.

Kadar was still glancing back and forth between the two, torn between loyalty to his brother and admiration border hero-worship of the master assassin. Struggling, he found a neutral topic and turned to Altair. "What is our mission?" he asked. "My brother would say nothing to me, only that I should feel honoured to be invited."

His anger drained away, locked up for later, and Altair refocused on the mission. This then, was Kadar's test; if he did well he would raise another rank in the brotherhood. He delivered the details to the journeyman: that Al Mualim believed the Knights Templar had found something under the mount of Solomon's Temple. Kadar's eyes brightened at the thought of treasure. He was young, naïve and still able to dream about adventure. Altair was quick to cut him off; what it was, not important. The only thing that mattered was that the Master needed it. It was an assassin's job to do the Teacher's bidding, and Altair had little else to believe in these days. Templar corruption seemed to spread everywhere, even into the ranks of the assassin's. Just a year ago Altair had been forced to kill Al Mualim's second in command for his betrayal; the kill was still painful, even now, and Altair refused to think on it. All he could do was place his trust in his master, the one man above the motives of the Templars.

The two began to run together, down the tunnel after Malik, the older brother's white shadow could just be seen in the distance as he scouted. The shaft was uneven and had large sections that had no torchlight. It bothered Altair little, his eyes keen and focus so narrow he was like an eagle, hopping from one support beam to another in absolute confidence as Kadar slowly fell behind, graceful but less certain of his footing.

When they had caught up to Malik the younger brother asked, "How is it that you can do that?"

"I say again," Altair said, "Skill."

Kadar grinned, making him look even younger, and Altair found a smirk on his scarred face before he schooled the expression. At least one of them had not changed.

The three hurried up a ladder and down another shaft, all three weary of how close they were to the enemy. Malik stayed several meters ahead, his head swivelling this way and that, on the lookout. Altair did the same, his keen eyes missing nothing. Kadar looked at them both in awe but played his part, scanning what he could see.

Up another ladder and the tunnel gave way to a more structured façade, the dirt replaced with stonework; a torch showing ancient designs and columns. At the entrance of the room, a guard stood with the outfit of a templar: padded gambeson jacket, leggings, chainmail, and sword at his hip.

Altair once more crept forward on silent feet like a panther stalking its prey. This man was more alert than the peasant, guards always had some level of training, and so Altair quickly wrapped his arm around the man's neck, hand over the mouth, and plunged his hidden blade into the man's back, below the shoulder blade and between ribs and chinks of armour. The guard gave a low, gurgled grunt before slumping to the ground.

Malik and Kadar stepped past him, Altair taking the rear and looking for people who might spy the body, but none followed, and after another few minutes of travelling the tunnels they met their obvious destination. He could hear footsteps they were almost silent but he caught it.

"Be on the lookout for guards, Kadar." Nodding to Altair in a silent salute, he kept his eyes to his surroundings.

Below them was a great room, still only half dug out, scaffolding and support beams littering the stone façade. There were narrow columns and pictures in relief, depicting what, Altair did not know nor did he care. In the center of the far wall, above the vaguely Greek archway, two torches bore light to a great golden box, old designs, perhaps hieroglyphics, decorating its sides. Atop it was a stylized flower, maybe an egg, sitting with great pomp.

"That must be the Ark," Malik said, staring at the golden box.

Kadar gasped. "The... Ark of the Covenant?" he whispered, incredulous and wondrous at the same time.

"Don't be silly, there's no such thing," Altair chided. "It's just a story."

Kadar looked incredulous; his face so like his brother's Altair had to work to not to double take. "Then what is it?" he demanded, pointing to the golden box and egg.

"Quiet!" Malik hissed, peering over the edge of the ledge they stood on and spying three shadows approaching. The three assassins turned invisible in the dark with trained skill.

The leader, head shaven, marched in, barking orders in a thick accent. French? His grey cloak did little to hide the heavy chain mail armour, nor the white smock bearing a blood red cross. Templars!

"I want us through this gate before sunrise!" he commanded his accent flowing through the command, the four Templars following him nodding like obedient dogs. They were clearly of lower rank, their red crosses not emblazoned on white smocks bur rather painted onto their small plates of armour. They bore no red helmets, either.

"The sooner we possess it," the leader was saying, "the sooner we can turn our attention to those jackals at Masyaf."

"Masyaf..." Malik breathed, his silhouette betraying the sudden tension in his body.

Altair had a different realization: "Robert de Sable," he growled. Altair snarled. "His life is _mine_."

Malik's head snapped up to Altair. "No. We were asked to retrieve the treasure and deal with de Sable only if it was necessary." His hands were up, as if trying to placate Altair.

"He stands between us and it, I would say it is necessary," he said, frustrated with the assassin.

"Discretion, Altair!" Malik hissed.

The master assassin scoffed. "You mean cowardice! That man is our greatest enemy, and here we have a chance to be rid of him."

Malik stood to his full height, not as tall as Altair but powerful nonetheless. Kadar looked between them again, uncertain what to do. "You have already broken two tenets of our Creed; now you would break the third? Do no compromise the Brotherhood!" His voice almost echoed in the large cavern, such power he put in his whispers.

Altair had had enough. "I am your superior, in both title _and_ ability." He glared, showing his anger. How could Malik doubt him? "You should know better than to question me."

And with that he leapt over the edge of the ledge, grabbing the sides of a ladder and keeping his grip just loose enough to control his fall down to the bottom of the cavern dozens of feet below. Then, he boldly marched into the torchlight, visible for all to see. "Hold, Templars!" he called out to the cluster, the group having been pouring over a parchment of some kind. "You are not the only ones with business here."

De Sable only glanced at the white robes and red sash before smiling.

"Ah," he said, "Well, this explains my missing man."

His underlings fanned out, hands clutching the hilts of their swords. Behind him Altair could hear the brothers A-Sayf join him, one at either side. He could picture Malik's glare if he cared to, but his focus was entirely on the Grand Master, bloodlust slowly filling his veins.

De Sable eyed the other two, his sneer fading only slightly. "And what is it you want?" he demanded.

"Blood," he answered simply.

He raced forward, only faintly hearing a pleading, "No!" only barely feeling a hand reach out to try and stop him but he would not be deterred, he would not fail, he would end the conflict at this moment! With the Templars dead Richard's forces would be weakened and the Crusaders would finally be driven out and maybe then, maybe _then_ they would learn to stop pointless bloodshed and end their quest for artefacts and people like Adha. Blood pulsed in his head, red haze clouding his sight but not his vision, and he dashed forward faster than any could stop, hidden blade piercing through his fist where a finger was supposed to be.

An elbow rammed into his face, distracting him just enough so the Templar's free had grasped his wrist. Altair pushed, snarling, determined to see blood. He angled his arm; the blade was mere inches from his enemy's throat. Victory would be his!

"You know not the things in which you meddle, assassin," De Sable whispered. "I spare you only that you may return to your master, and deliver a message." A massive hand gripped Altair's throat, choking him, driving him back. Both fought for favourable footing. He was losing ground but still he persisted. This man would die! The war will end now!

"The Holy Land is lost to him and his. He should flee now while he has the chance. Stay and all of you will die."

And then the pressure on his neck disappeared, and the sudden lack of resistance pitched Altair forward. De Sable used that momentum and swung Altair to the side, away from him. Altair tried to roll with it but in their struggle de Sable had angled him towards some of the support structure. Before he could complete the recovery he crashed into something, and suddenly his vision was blurred with dirt and rocks and rubble and the sounds of crashing and then instead of recovering he was dodging as the Grecian pillars fell. Standing, he shook his head of the dirt and dust and fought to get his bearings. The support scaffolding had collapsed, the entrance of the temple now in ruin before him blocked by wood, rubble and stone. He pressed himself against the rubble, straining his ears.

From the other side he could hear De Sable bark orders. "Men! To arms! Kill the assassins!"

Altair scrambled to get the rubble out of the way, trying to get to the other side ignoring the sound of swords being drawn, and the screams of the brothers dying. And then: painful, empty, silence. He felt shame fill him.

They were dead. Malik and Kadar were _dead_. Altair stared at the stone slabs, for a moment uncomprehending. _They were dead_.

He hung his head low in resignation. If he was the only one left, then he had to get back to Masyaf, back to the assassins, back to Al Mualim. To deliver the news. That he had failed.

This section of the ruin was only partially built, poles stuck up for no reason, not yet connected to scaffolding, stone structures peeking out of the earth like missing limbs, and Altair scaled all of it, burying his regret, his loss. He hardened his heart, refusing to feel pain.

He had already felt enough of it.

He saw light above him, and as he crested a vertical stone wall he saw the late evening sun pouring its last rays ov_er the city of Jerusalem._

* * *

_"Fast forwarding memory to a more recent one."_

"What the hell?" Desmond demanded. "What happens next?"

Stillman's voice filtered into his ears. _"Don't worry. We're just skipping over the memories of travel."_

_"Indeed,"_ the grizzly old fart said. _"We're not here for an extraneous jaunt down memory lane, we're looking for something much more specific. The less time we waste, the better."_

Desmond frowned so he couldn't prolong this.

* * *

Altair subconsciously took his time at the stables unsaddling his horse and brushing her down. Invariably his thoughts turned to the brothers A-Sayf: Malik and Kadar. He and Malik were age-mates; they grew up together in Masyaf, chasing imaginary enemies and hitting each other with practice wands and sneaking around the markets with all the skill of half trained seven year olds possessed. They had spent every day together until their fourteenth year when they were apprenticed out to the other cities, Malik to Damascus and Altair to Jerusalem. Their letters to each other had gradually faded, both becoming absorbed in the training, the small missions ad reports and lessons the city _rafiq_ offered.

Malik was one of the brightest students of their age group. While Altair had a skill for language and writing, Malik not only excelled at that but the mathematics and the sciences as well. Altair often teased Malik, saying that if his head became too full he would be top-heavy and forever fall on his face. Malik in turn said that if Altair's head became too empty he would trip over a rock for not knowing its purpose. They were young and competitive and close - as close as brothers. But now, not anymore. Their angry words that day scraped at Altair, he did not want to leave on bad terms, but now he could not reconcile, and he knew their fight would haunt him, tainting his fond memories of the other man.

Kadar, Altair had vague memories of a small wide-eyed child always watching his brother, and so he was surprised when the boy had been apprenticed to Jerusalem. By then, Altair was already a senior assassin, many exploits under his leather belts and taking missions out of the city. He only saw the boy occasionally, but knew Kadar was surrounded by the stories of Altair's adventures as told by the other journeymen. His respect whenever Altair was at the Bureau was obvious.

Kadar... he was not useless as Altair had thought him that day. His wide eyes and innocent face made him a skilled informant and spy. He _listened_, and his mind was as bright as Malik's. With the right training he would have been skilled at seeing patterns, a rare skill highly coveted by many. His lack of experience was his only hindrance, and now his future had been ripped from him. His arrogance had done that and he had only himself to blame.

Fortune did not favour Altair's blade, as Kadar had suggested, but it was not skill as Altair had bragged; if there was he could have prevented their deaths.

At last he put the brush away, his motions jerky and violent, and he marched out of the stables, his face black as his mood. As if their deaths did not weigh him enough, he would now have to face the disappointment of his Master, the one man he saw as a father.

He entered the gates of Masyaf, not even glancing at the journeymen at attention, entering the small town.

"Altair! You've returned!"

Altair turned slightly to see an all too familiar man leaning against a fenced in tree. "Rauf," he greeted. He did not want to talk.

"It is good to see you unharmed," Rauf said genially, walking up to the master assassin. Despite being a sword master, he was perennially warm and welcoming outside of the practice ring. He also seemed determined to make conversation. "I trust your mission was a success," he said with complete confidence.

"... Is the Master in his tower?" Altair asked, looking away.

"Yes, yes. Buried in his books as always. No doubt he expects you."

"My thanks, brother."

"Safety and peace, Altair," Rauf said, tone warm but his eyes changing; he saw something in the reticent assassin that Altair did not want to be seen. And yet, at that moment, Altair did not want to take for granted another friend, never knowing when one would die.

"On you as well," he said simply, hoping it would be enough.

Masyaf was small compared to the great cities of the Holy Land, a simple town carved into the base of a mountain. The winters were harsh and unforgiving, the ridges sharp and vertical. Buildings were butted up against sheer faces, squares and the one market were small and uneven in shape, but it was home. Assassins knew every corner, every wall, every haystack and bench. _Rafiq_ and _dai_, the nobility of the brotherhood, were side by side with merchants and basket weavers and potters and goat herders. Shepherds bought supplies here, children played here, and most important of all, they had fresh and clean water from winter's runoff. They did not have to worry about bitter or tainted water, substitute it for wine as the cities did. Their minds were always clear and their actions always deliberate.

Altair hiked up the steep main road, passing villagers and homes and dozens of trees that offered blessed shade against the approaching summer's heat. Members of the order would occasionally nod to him but Altair bade no response, he had but one goal in mind: talk to the Master.

Much higher up the mountain he saw the order's flags, marking the end of the village and the beginning of the brotherhood. Here was the training, the practice ring, the library, the quarters, the armoury, the last stand of the order. Altair was not a man of wishes, but he hoped that they would never fight here. It was not Holy, but for him it was sacred ground. The fortress was an enormous, imposing structure, and Altair took a moment to just look up at it, appreciating it, before refocusing and continuing his hike. There were no villagers here, everyone walking in or out of the fortress wore the red sash of the brotherhood, some with chain mail of the guards, some with the dark robes of _rafiq_, some journeymen, some simply novices, but all of them trained under the Master himself.

At the fortress gate, another man assaulted him with conversation.

"Ah, he returns at last."

"...Abbas," Altair greeted.

The other assassin looked theatrically behind Altair. "Where are the others? Did you ride ahead hoping to be the first one back?" He glared at the master assassin, antagonism radiating off his body. "I know you are loath to share the glory."

There was no glory to be had over the failure. That Abbas would suggest it only made Altair glare at the man.

He grinned, happy, "Silence is just another form of assent."

"Have you nothing better to do?" Altair demanded.

"I bring word from the Master: He waits for you in the library."

Altair nodded and started to walk past the other assassin.

"Best hurry," Abbas said, following him. "No doubt you're eager to put your tongue to his boot."

"Another word and I'll put my blade to your throat," Altair threatened, wanting to be rid of the man.

"There'll be plenty of time for that later, _brother_," Abbas said, falling away and joining a small cluster of other assassins. Altair could hear his barbed comments and the raucous laughter of the others, but he paid it no heed. He had other worries on his mind.

Entering the main courtyard Altair walked around the training ring, Rauf's second home, and up the sloped stairs to the main building of the fortress. A guard at the door bowed to him, mumbling a polite, "It is an honour," as Altair brushed past him. The library was filled with scholars, marked with their white cloaks. Guards were everywhere; this was the sanctuary of the Master, the Teacher, and the Leader of the Order: Al Mualim.

"The Master waits within," one of them said.

Altair ascended the stairs, giving but a glance out the glass windows to the gardens below. Up another flight and through the shelves narrow pathways and he was at another great glass window, large and ornate, looking out over the center courtyard of the fortress. Framing it were assassin flags, in front of it was a table, filled with rolls of parchment and scrolls and books. By it was a pigeon coup for messenger birds. And at it was the Master himself.

Al Mualim was a tall, aged man. His beard was white and long, one scarred eye was milky white with blindness. He wore the dark robe of a _dai_, but darker still, a pure black that even the sun could not bleach, and his hood was over his head.

"Altair," He said, turning to face his most prized student.

"Master," Altair greeted, his head bowed.

"Come forward. Tell me of your mission," he gestured, his voice as warm, or as warm as it could ever be for the distance he held to everyone. "I trust you have recovered the Templar's treasure."

"...There was some trouble, Master," Altair said, struggling to find words that could somehow soften this blow. "Robert de Sable was not alone."

"When does our work ever go as expected? It is our ability to adapt that makes us who we are," Al Mualim offered, still expressing confidence in Altair's abilities. The inherent praise only served to hurt Altair more, and his words were almost lost to him.

Still, he was able to offer, "This time it was not enough."

"What do you mean?"

"I have failed you."

Open shock. "The treasure?"

"Lost to us."

"And Robert?"

"Escaped."

Everything changed. Al Mualim's face contorted and his words suddenly became hard and biting. "I send you, my best man, to complete a mission that is more important than _any_ that has come before. And you return to me with nothing but apologies and excuses."

"I did-"

"Do not speak! Not another word!" Al Mualim turned, his anger contained for the moment as his mind began once more to work. Altair could not look at him, kept his head down in shame and deference. All he could do was wait. "This is not what I expected; we'll need to mount another force."

A chance at restitution, perhaps? "I swear to you I'll find him," Altair said. "I'll go and-"

"No! You do nothing; you've done enough!" Al Mualim hissed. Anger briefly flaring at his disappointing student, but once again it vanished to the wind, his critical eye assessing Altair in a new light. He looked to either side of the top-ranked assassin. "... Where are Malik and Kadar?"

The answer was the longest yet in coming. Altair could not look up. "... Dead."

"No, they are not dead."

Master and student both turned, startled, to see a third figure approach, the whites of a master assassin stained heavily with but not his but the two he carried by his side. The man was holding both brothers, they hung limply at his side. Altair could not school his expression; shock was blatant on his face.

Malik and Kadar. _They were__ alive!_

"Tha'lab," Al Mualim said, his voice was filled with shock. Tha'lab was also another master assassin, lesser known but not any more dangerous than Altair. He was tall standing at 1.8m or 5'9, he was garbed in the traditional master assassin robes with notable differences. He had the same bracers on his left and right arms where the hidden blades on his left and right wrist resided both ring fingers cut off. He was fitted with throwing knives on both shoulders and the front waist. Two steel short swords strapped on both sides and his layer of leather belts had pouches full of supplies. Half of his face was covered by a dark grey mask leaving only his black hair and golden eyes visible.

"They live but will not if they do not have water and clean bandages soon." This stranger's voice was calm. He motioned to Malik. "Unfortunately, this one will not be able to use his left arm anymore."

Malik began to stir and woke up to the sight of Al Mualim and Altair.

"You, you left us to die, you dog!" He screamed at Altair.

"Robert threw me from the room; there was no way back, nothing I could do." He defended himself, he wanted to help them, and he really did.

"Because you would not heed my warning!" Malik shouted, overriding Altair's words. He swayed on his feet but Tha'lab's hand and his anger kept him going, kept his shouting. "All of this could have been avoided! And my brother could have been lost!" His voice cracked with rage and Altair could only stare. How? How could any of this have been avoided? Did he mean the death of the miner? Or...

Malik swayed on his feet again, legs almost buckling and lost consciousness. Tha'lab called for the healers to get both brothers healed. Altair's head bowed in shame.

"Your arrogance nearly cost us our victory," Tha'lab started. Altair's face flushed with anger. How dare this man!

"Nearly?" Al Mualim asked, surprised once again.

"Here," he said, pulling a decorated egg out of a pouch at his back. "Take it; though it seems I've returned with more than just their treasure."

"Master! We are under attack!" A young apprentice said, dashing up the stairs in a panic. "Robert de Sable lays siege to Masyaf's village!"

Whatever thoughts the Master had were carefully hidden. He rubbed his long white beard, muttering to himself. "So he seeks a battle..." He paced about his table, deep in thought. Tha'lab stood silently by the railing.

The Master came to a decision. "Very well," he said, "I'll not deny him the battle. He turned to the young apprentice, his face as white as his _tagelmust_. "Go. Inform the others. The fortress must be prepared. The apprentice nodded and dashed off. Hard eyes turned to the top-ranked assassin. "As for you, Altair, our discussion will have to wait. You must make for the village. Destroy these invaders, drive them from our home."

Altair bowed. "It will be done," he said, committed.

"Go along with him, Tha'lab," Al Mualim said to the silent man. "We will need all our best warriors.

"Yes, Al Mualim." His golden eyes closed as he accepted his order.

Altair leapt over the banister to carry out his orders.

* * *

It took an hour to pass word to the associated parties. Abbas took charge of the men in the citadel while Rauf was in charge of ferreting out the villagers and escorting them to safety. Altair checked from the tower to observe the cursed de Sable. It was a small force, an insult to the order, with only one siege engine and one contingent of soldiers. The narrow pass of the Orontes Valley gave the assassins some advantage, and they were not without their defences.

The siege began. Tha'lab was down there ordering the assassins as best as he could to resist the invading forces. Altair, done with his checks, ran down the fortress halls and outside to join the fight as Al Mualim had commanded. Running down the narrow path to the village he had to dodge running villagers and wounded men.

"Altair!" someone shouted, and the master assassin slowed to see Rauf, bloody but seemingly unharmed, dashing towards him with two men. "It's good you've come; we need your help."

"What's happened?" he demanded.

"Templars. They've broken through the main gate and are attacking the village. Most has been evacuated. Most, but not all."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Distract the Templars. Keep them occupied while I rescue those still trapped."

"As you wish."

"Good," Rauf said. "I knew I could count on you; may fortune favour your blade!"

Kadar filled his mind, and Altair's steps seemed to grow faster.

Wounded were staggering up the path, some being helped by scholars or rafiqs, others alone. Blood filled the air and Altair knew he had little time. He had just reached the edge of the village when he saw a mass of Crusaders swinging wildly at the innocent villagers as they ran. The savagery only fueled Altair's anger, and he drew his sword while running. Tha'lab was cutting down the knights that tried to hit the innocent villagers. Someone saw the white terror racing towards them and shouted, "Assassin! Don't let him get away!" and the entire throng turned to the master assassin.

"Altair there is more at the main gates, we must reduce their numbers," Tha'lab finished as he stabbed a knight in the heart with his blade.

At last they made his way to the main gate. The stables were ablaze and horses were running everywhere, panicked. The massive tree trunk-stakes that had surrounded the gates were in splinters, but strangely the gate itself was in one piece, hanging open and inviting.

Bloodlust filled Altair, and he lost himself in the fight, slashing, stabbing, dodging, parrying, breaking bones and piercing lungs, throwing knives, fountains of blood spraying wherever he went. Altair was death incarnate, no one could break his tight guard as he slaughtered every armoured body around him: slitting throats, stabbing armpits, snapping arms and legs so violently bone fragments flew in the air. Throwing knives suddenly erupted from eye sockets or collarbones, hands were shattered and weapons disarmed. This was Altair at his best: a living, breathing, fighting machine.

Tha'lab was silent taking down knights in cold precision. He walked through the battle as if the fire and blood did not bother him. He took down the knights with lightning efficiency. A short sword in his right hand stabbed through the shoulder of a crusader, his hidden blade sticking out the neck of another. Another was about to strike him with a halberd overhead, he side stepped the attack and rammed his elbow to the knight's chest. Tha'lab sharply ripped the weapon from the crusader's hands before bringing him down to his knees and ending his life with a decapitation. He was once more breaking the ranks like a ghost with his touch as they fell.

"Break off the attack and return to Masyaf!"

Abbas' booming voice carried over the screams and the death throws and Altair's own adrenaline. Altair had run out of Templars and was now looking at retreating assassins. He would not run away, he would finish this! The master assassin tried to bowl through his comrades, blood still throbbing in his veins, intent of killing his way to de Sable himself, only for his robe to be grabbed by Tha'lab who hauled him up the hill with incredible strength.

"No I can end this," Altair shouted, trying to resist the hold on him.

Abbas threw an unhindered punch at the assassin. "Al Mualim commands it!" he shouted, punching him again.

The retreat was slow with the Templars nipping at their heels. Altair had long run out of throwing knives, and combat needed to be much more selective. He could not blindly start a melee, he needed to give the others time to retreat, and so he would dash towards the Crusaders, swinging his sword wildly, scaring them almost to a halt, and then turn on his heel and run. Tha'lab would cover Altair when a knight would get too close for comfort. When two or three managed to catch up to him he was draw his curved short sword and gut them in front of their comrades. At last, however, they cleared the fortress gates and the iron bars slammed closed.

The center courtyard was filled with refugees, the injured being treated by the scholars and physicians in the training circle. Women and children cried, the soldiers tried to be brave but were haunted. This was Masyaf, the one refuge of the assassins and yet they had lost so much ground. What was Al Mualim planning?

Altair wished to know himself, and he all but ran around the ring and through the halls to the library, ready to carry out whatever order his Teacher had for him.

"Altair, come!" Rauf called. The master assassin paused, looking up to one of the defence towers to see the sword master. "Al Mualim's not done with us yet."

"Where are we going?" he asked, walking to a ladder and ascending to join Rauf.

"Up there," Rauf replied, pointing higher up the tower. "We've a surprise planned for our guests." The sword master offered a hand to help Altair up but the master assassin refused. Together, they climbed even further up the tower. "Just do as I do, it should become clear, soon enough," he added with a vicious grin.

He recognized immediately where he was going, and could hazard a rough guess on what the Master had planned. Rauf didn't need to tell him as they stood on the highest floor of the tower, three platforms extended out over the infinite expanse of the mountains below. The two confidently marched out onto the platforms, the wind billowing bout them, Tha'lab joining them soon after.

"Heretic!" De Sable could be heard cursing, sitting on a black warhorse and shouting up to the fortress. He had perhaps a hundred men with him. "Return what you have stolen from me!"

Altair grinned slightly, happy to see the man furious.

"You've no claim to it, Robert!" Al Mualim answered, Altair could not see from where. "Take yourself from here before I'm forced to thin your ranks further."

"You play a dangerous game!" De Sable spat, fury clear within his voice.

"I assure you, this is no game." Al Mualim said calmly.

"So be it!" De Sable spat out. He turned to his men. "Bring forth the hostage!"

A journeyman - if his grey hood was an indication - was tossed forward by the Crusaders. Altair could just make out the man look up to his Master before a soldier ran the man through with a sword, blood spurting out. Even from their great height the master assassin could hear the gurgled groan as the hostage slumped forward, dead on the ground.

De Sable spoke again. "Your village lays in ruins, and your stores are hardly endless! How long before your fortress crumbles from within? How disciplined will your men remain, when the wells run dry, and their food is gone?"

"My men do not fear death, Robert," Al Mualim countered. "They _welcome_ it, and the rewards it brings."

"Good!" De Sable called. "Then they shall have it all around."

Rauf turned to the Tha'lab, his voice in a whisper. "Are you ready?" He was answered with a nod.

Al Mualim's voice was booming and confident as he gave the order. "Show these fool 'Knights' what it is to have no fear! Go to God!"

Without the slightest bit of doubt, all three leapt off the battlements, plunging down to their deaths. Air whipped through Altair's ears and hair, the battlement wall streaking by him like a heat mirage, and the ground rushed up to meet him, and death was replaced with the sweet, dry scent of hay. Any assassin knew these forts; this was where the Leap of Faith was practiced.

Altair quickly rolled out of the hay, Rauf and Tha'lab doing the same. Rauf looked to Altair and Tha'lab and the two nodded, silently agreeing on the next course of action.

They edged around the narrow ledge where the haystacks lay, the rocks giving him cover. Masyaf was built atop a mountain lake from which they drew their precious water, and while de Sable cursed and threatened Al Mualim. They crossed narrow support beams from one structure to another, circling around the Templars until they reached his destination: a defence tower built into the mountain itself. The entrance was on de Sable's side but it mattered little to Altair. He took but a moment to study the vertical wall, plotting out his route before his calloused hands expertly found the necessary hand and footholds. It took a while for the three assassins to climb the tower.

Now he had a much better view. Al Mualim stood on the outer wall of the fortress, gazing down at de Sable as he would an errant child. The Templar Grand Master was directly below, his men trailing out behind him, cramped in the narrow pass. Perfect.

Altair looked to Al Mualim. Their eyes met, however briefly, and the Master nodded.

With the logs all held back by ropes they all drew their swords and cut it and dozen cut logs of varying sizes rolled out of the ramparts directly onto De Sable and his men. Chaos erupted as the men tried to fall back, some crushed as the logs fell, others trapped as they rolled after them, and others still run over by their compatriots as they tried to get away. Soon after the gates opened and the assassin troops chased after what was left of the throngs.

* * *

It took some time to weed out the last of the Crusaders, the assassins going building by building and searching for cowards or stragglers, assisting the villagers back to what were left of the ransacked village. Bodies were collected and gathered in a pile by the remains of the main gate for later disposal. Altair paid little attention to these things, instead riding his horse with the others, slashing and biting at Templar heels down the Orontes Valley and away from their territory.

It was late by the time Altair and the others returned to the city the indication that the sun was dipping into the horizon. He, Rauf, and Tha'lab were summoned to see Al Mualim, the mighty teacher standing over the training ring. Many of the troops were gathered around, intent on their Teacher's speech.

"You did well to drive Robert from here. His force is broken. It shall be a long while before he troubles us again. Tell me, do you know _why_ it is that you are successful?" He gazed intently at Altair, apparently this conversation was meant for him.

Uncertain, the master assassin remained silent.

"You _listened_," Al Mualim supplied. "Would that you had listened in Solomon's Temple, Altair, all of this would have been avoided."

"I did as I was asked," Altair said, refusing to show weakness.

The Master held up a hand, stalling his next words.

"No. You did as you pleased. Malik has told me of the arrogance you displayed, your disregard for our ways."

The bearded man glanced at the two at Altair's side, Rauf and Tha'lab grabbed the master assassin's arms, restraining him.

"What are you doing?" Altair demanded.

"There are rules. We are nothing if we do not abide by the _assassyun's_ Creed. Three simple tenets," he said, pacing slightly before turning a cold and merciless gaze to his student. "Which you seem to forget," he spat, grabbing Altair's chin and forcing the man to look at him. His blind eye was penetrating, his clear one furious. Altair could say nothing to the man who he looked up to as a father.

"I will remind you: First and foremost: _stay your blade_," and the Teacher's voice was harsh with disapproval.

"From the flesh of an innocent," Altair finished, his face blank, his body tense but neutral, all of it hiding his true emotion boiling inside of him. "I know."

Al Mualim backhanded the master assassin, a violent punch that sent his head snapping to one side.

"And stay your tongue," the Master added, his finger jabbed at Altair's chest. "Unless I give you leave to use it."

Altair said nothing more.

"If you are so familiar with this tenet, then why did you kill the old man inside the temple? He was innocent; he did not need to die." He paused, waiting, silently daring his pupil to speak. Altair said nothing, looking anywhere but at Al Mualim causing the older man to frown. "Your insolence knows no bounds. Make humble your heart, child, or I swear I'll tear it from you with my own hands."

He let the words sink in before continuing. "The second tenet is that which gives us strength: Hide in plain sight. Let the people mask you such that you become one with the crowd. Do you remember?" he demanded, still eying the assassin. "Because as I hear it you chose to expose yourself, drawing attention before you struck!

"The third and final tenet, the worst of all your betrayals: _never_ compromise the brotherhood. Its meaning should be obvious: your actions must never bring harm upon us, direct or indirect. Yet your selfish act to leave Jerusalem placed us all in danger! More still! You brought the enemy to our _home_! Every man we've lost today was lost because of _you_!" He finished with a roar.

A long, pregnant pause drew out between them. Murmurs could be heard breezing throughout the crowd. Public denouncements like this were not common, moreover the fact that this was Altair, the prize of the order, the best of the best. As the litany of his sins became apparent, the murmurs grew louder and angrier, but never did they overtake Al Mualim's angry rebuttals. Altair's ears were pounding, he was struggling to look disaffected; he could feel Abbas' grinning at his disgrace. He saw Kadar's face, awed and trusting; he saw Malik's face, twisted with anger and betrayal. Emotions raged through him, he did not know which to act on, and so he did nothing.

"I am sorry," the Teacher said, drawing a knife. "Truly, I am. But I cannot abide a traitor."

Altair struggled against the men restraining him. "I am not a traitor," he refuted. Surely his actions this day had provided restitution? He had aided Rauf and Tha'lab, held back the Templars, set off the trap that had slaughtered them, defended their home. Did that not count for anything...?

Al Mualim shook his head. "Your actions indicate otherwise," he answered, contemplating the blade in his hand. "And so you leave me no choice. Peace be upon you, Altair."

And the knife was thrust deep into the master assassin's side, above the protection of the leather belts, below the protection of the ribcage.

Pain exploded across his senses and he fell to the ground, Tha'lab looked on with a blank face but his golden never left him and Rauf loo_king on in sadness and the Master not even sparing him a second glance because in the end even he was worthless after all..._

* * *

This first chapter goes to the author Mirror and Image as they kindly provided this chapter as a base for my Naruto/Assassin's Creed Crossover, please go over and read their novelisation of Assassin's creed, I promise you that it will be worth it.


	2. Knowledge and Wisdom

**Chapter 2: Knowledge and Wisdom**

**~ New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings. - ?**

* * *

Desmond was suddenly looking up at the blank ceiling of his current prison, struggling to make sense of what the fuck just happened! He knew Altair didn't die there but the experience of dying that was something he didn't want to experience even though he came close to experiencing it so many times.

"He's experiencing a far better adoption rate than the other subjects," the old codger was saying in a gleeful voice.

Desmond didn't care. He was still shaken from his near-death experience! Al Mualim had just stabbed his ancestor Altair, Desmond could still feel the icy cold fingers of death gripping at his heart.

He shuddered, the phantom pain in his side fading with his reassurance that he was still alive.

I'm still pulling him out," Stillman said, rapidly pressing away on her keyboard.

That was just fine for Desmond. He had been in there long enough, he felt more tired though.

"He's been in there way too long."

"No, not yet!" the old man exclaimed. "We're still so far from where we need to be!"

Desmond would have told Dr Dickhead to go fuck himself if he had the strength. God, he was still trying to just move his arms. It was so disorienting to be in the Third Crusade one minute and back to 2012 the next. The animus that he was using was a real piece of crap compared to the one he used in the

"We shouldn't risk it."

"Yay…" Desmond thought to himself, popping the bones back into place.

"What's another hour or two?" the old fart insisted.

'Fucking asshole!' Desmond thought angrily.

Stillman glared at him coldly. "Why don't we discuss this in the conference room?" She gestured to where he was still unmoving on the table. "Give Desmond a minute to stretch his legs."

She started to walk away, and Desmond caught the meaningful glance she threw his way.

"I really don't see the _need_," grumbled the old fart, still acting like he was god.

"Warren, please," she said firmly, her heels loudly clicking her quick stomping steps towards a door by a wide observation window.

"Fine," Warren retorted petulantly, still trying to seem the better and more mature.

As the two walked away, Desmond finally found the strength to sit up, fiercely pressing his face into the palms of his hands. When his hands came down, his brown irises had a gold tint to them as he scanned the room. What he found shocked him, symbols written in blood all around the room.

'So this is the result of the madness that drove Clay to this,' Desmond thought as he examined each of them storing the images into his mind. All these symbols meant something, he didn't know what yet. He would have more time to think about this later. He just needed to investigate a little more.

And being alone gave him the perfect opportunity.

He glanced at the door that Warren and Lucy went through. He doubted he'd have access to that, but the door to the right of the observation window looked far more interesting.

The door was open, though Desmond recalled it being closed before for some reason. He walked through to a utilitarian room. A plain bed, with closets across from it and a small glass table and chair near the door were the only furnishings aside from the piping and duct work necessary for a commercial building or research facility that these seemed to be.

He walked quickly through what was likely going to be his "room" for a while, and into a bathroom just as sparse. He could already hear the old fart Warren trying to say something. A quick glance up showed the venting that allowed the air to circulate that lead likely to the conference room.

A way to listen in for a conversation. Knowledge. He needed know more about the Templars' plan. So he stood on a counter, pressed his ear as close to the vent as he could, and listened.

"I do not appreciate you questioning my authority over the prisoner," the old coot said severely. "There's a word for that. I believe it's called 'insubordination'."

Whoa the old man felt like he really was god!

"And I don't appreciate you trying to kill him. There's a word for that too. I believe it's called 'stupid'."

Desmond smirked. Lucy had a quick wit to her.

"Lucy." Warren said sharply. "This isn't my decision. I won't cross their line. I'm smart enough not to challenge them."

So there was someone higher up the rung. Mostly likely someone from the inner sanctum.

"Do you want to wind up like Leila?"

Desmond stiffened as this guy was seriously threatening Lucy.

"I know the accident has everyone on edge-"

Lucy wasn't backing down. Desmond admired the fire but she was playing it safe.

"Which is why we have no time to coddle him," Warren interrupted coldly.

"If you push him too hard, he'll shut down. And then we'll have nothing." Lucy refuted.

The old fart laughed at that. "We have nothing now," he countered.

"But we will," Lucy said confidently. "We just need to have a little faith."

"Fine. But I want you thinking of ways to improve his staying power. We can't afford to stop every time the man breaks a sweat."

So something was happening to Desmond's body, something bad. Then that meant they were monitoring his health and needed him to remain stable to keep doing this.

"It's bad enough we have to traipse through all of these useless memories."

Desmond scowled. Traipse around useless memories? This was important information, the unrevised look of Altair's life. There was no telling what could be hidden in the Master Assassin's life.

"I'll do what I can."

Desmond got off the counter and went out of the room before coming back. He relieved himself before he quickly headed over to the window to make it look like he hadn't been eavesdropping at all. A look outside showed that he was several stories up on some sort of bleached out office compound. The sun was starting to set in the horizon, making looking around and identifying where he was almost impossible. He'd have to look when more light was visible just to get an idea of where he was.

A sharp series of beeps heralded the door to the conference room opening and Desmond turned around to level an appropriately helpless glare to his current warden.

"We're done for today, Mr. Miles."

'No thanks to you, you heartless son of a bitch,' Desmond thought vindictively. He just grumbled out some words.

"I suggest you return to your room and get some rest."

So he was right, that was going to be his room for his stay here. The old bastard headed to a door opposite the head of the Animus, a double-wide door with the same strange division into quadrants by a set of white fluorescent lights. Lucy didn't follow, instead going to a small raised platform to check on a bank of servers. Cold air rained down from above, cold enough to create mist. Wasn't she freezing in that short sleeved shirt and skirt? But then again he could see something poking through the materi- he averted his eyes as she turned to look at him.

She asked, "So you're really an assassin? Like Altair?"

Thinking about it, he supposed that he was sort of like Altaïr. He did train at a young age but then he left. He also did train with Naruto as well. Good times. "Yes and no."

"What do you mean?"

"I was supposed to be one, but I ran away from the farm when I was sixteen." He looked away again, rubbing an arm. He supposed that he was going to go with half-truths for now. Lucy was a fellow assassin but that didn't mean she wasn't entitled to knowing all of his secrets.

"'Farm?'" She looked at him quizzically.

"Yeah, that's what they called the place where I grew up: the farm. Like Masyaf, I guess, only not so, uh, creepy. Just a small community in the middle of nowhere, about thirty of us, living, you know, off the grid." The Farm, a small village in South Dakota near Rapid City. Now it was gone from what he heard, destroyed by the Templars.

"But why?"

"Thought my parents were just crazy hippies," he answered, remembering younger days when he lived in ignorance, "trying to stick it to the man, you know?" God, he missed those days. "My dad was always going on about our enemies, about how they'd be looking for us, about how we have to be prepared." Years of believing it, years of waiting, years of... nothing. "No one ever came. Nothing ever happened." Until he met Naruto then the world got so much crazier and though he was loathed to admit, what his father said did make sense.

"Then why'd you run away?" she asked, her head cocking to the side.

"Heh," Desmond snorted. "Imagine being trapped in a retirement home playing scrabble all day. Yeah and you're told there is a better place outside but you're locked up. That's my situation."

Her face cracked a small smile but then turned into a frown.

"Don't you miss your parents?"

"Not really," Desmond answered, bitter memories filling his head. "Far as I'm concerned, they weren't my parents. They were my wardens, and I was their prisoner. I'm grateful that my mom gave birth to me and all but entering the world like I have. And my dad kept warning me about these enemies, these ghosts." He missed his mom so much now when was the last time he saw her and his father… as far as he was concerned, if he met him again it would be too soon.

Lucy hesitated, her eyes darting to him and then looking away. "It sounds like they only wanted to protect you."

She was right, they did want to protect him. They knew the dangers, they had the face of their enemy they met them. He didn't so they trained him to be wary. That just made him jump at shadows for no reason. Knowing as much as he did now, jumping at shadows now seemed pretty justified especially now that those shadows caught him.

"With all that's happened... I don't know, I guess they were right." He owed them an apology. Yeah, he was going to apologise. To mom at least. His father was a whole another story.

Lucy looked away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to drudge up the past."

He didn't know why he told his story but he guessed it was her. Something made him trust her plus it was nice to get this off his chest once in a while plus it gave him something to distract from her shirt.

"It's alright," he reassured her. "It gives me something to think about."

"Try and get some sleep," she said gently, a small smile on her face as she changed topic. "We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"Got a question for you before I turn in." Because he was not sharing his sob story without getting some information in return.

"Sure."

"How did they find me? I mean, I haven't been anywhere near another assassin for ten years." Well that was a bold-faced lie; he's been with an assassin for ten years.

"Did you use your real name?" she asked. Nostalgia started to fill his being as he remembered the times of being an assassin.

"No, not before today."

He was showing different I.D cards to people each with different names and appearance.

"Credit cards?"

"Cash only."

Desmond had a ski mask on with several other people as they held assault rifles, pointing them at several people inside the bank with a familiar symbol of a cross on the vault.

"Telephone?"

"Heh. No one to call."

He was on a headset holding one side as he listened in before pressing the button on the remote as a distant explosion could be seen with the distinctive mushroom cloud.

"Driver's license?"

"Motorcycle. Guilty pleasure."

Desmond was on a motorcycle, dodging cars and bullets as Templar agents were after him with a few bullets grazing his helmet and on hitting him in the leg.

Yeah, good times.

"There's your answer. Photo, fingerprint."

This was more deliberate, infiltration and investigation. He need to get to one of the many headquarters Abstergo owned and extract some core information about what the Templars had on the pieces of Eden, their projects they had past, current and future and to extradite an agent there. That agent being Lucy. He again put up his act as a scared prisoner.

"This is a drug company!" Desmond protested. "What does Abstergo have to do with the DMV?"

"Desmond. These guys are everywhere. They..." Lucy completely stopped, her eyes darting to the cameras surrounding the room. He drummed his fingers along his pants, hoping she get the message. "I... I'm sorry, I... I really can't talk about it. Aren't you tired?"

It wasn't long before Lucy said she had to go, and ushered him to his quarters.

Unsurprisingly the door slid shut behind him.

Also unsurprisingly was a pair of beeps that resembled a digital "ha-ha", it triggered a red light above the door indicating that it was locked.

"Of course they locked the door," Desmond finished with a sigh.

He sat heavily on the bed. Closing his eyes, he turned to the meditation technique where he needed to think about certain matters. It helped recall his memory in perfect clarity.

The symbols Clay drew they were meant for the next person that got kidnapped meaning him. He sat there in lotus position thinking on the symbols near the animus and around the room. The eye of providence was near where his head rested on the animus and a pyramid with an apple above it and eyes inside was near the double doors he didn't understand that. He thought about the square of letters, piecing it together until it clicked.

_Artefacts sent to the skies to control all nations, to make us obey a hidden crusade. Do not help them._

'So the Templars are launching the pieces of Eden into space to control the world but with…a satellite.'

The pyramid of letters like the square of letters had a similar pattern.

'_They drained my soul and made it theirs. I drain my body to show you where I saw it.'_

'The Templars drove Clay mad with continued use of the animus. He still remembered the mission if he went about it by doing it with his blood. It gave him valuable information but at the cost of Clay's life. He opened his eyes at the sight of an armed guard had a gun pointed in his direction; Desmond easily held up his hands, shrugging his shoulders. No resistance from him.

Not yet, anyway.

The guard set a tray of something on his glass desk, and then backed out of the room. The door shut with a digital "ha-ha", and Desmond was locked in again. He waited a moment before cautiously walking over.

What he saw made his stomach growl.

"At least I'm allowed to eat."

Not that it was much of a meal. Bland looking and only barely warm, he shoved down the tasteless food. They needed him functioning and he needed himself functioning. Then he remembered that they could have put something into his food that would make him obey them. He chewed the food more slowly and looked at his meal more suspiciously. He decided that after this mission he was going to take the cleansing process. God how he hated his paranoia sometime.

Once done, Desmond decided that he'd done all he could for the day. A good night's sleep was just as necessary as regular meals after all. So he washed up and went to the closet to change.

To find it locked.

"Are you kidding me? I can't even change?"

Desmond let out a tired sigh. His clothes were still clean. Guess he was going to bed in his clothes.

He tried not to think of his father, their last fight, and the old fart's warnings and how they were... true.

He rested for night briefly contemplating the future and loss and effort of an assassin who gave his life for him to get the information cryptic though as it was with all the blood. He fell asleep, visions of red writing swimming in his head.

* * *

He blearily opened his eyes...

And saw the old bastard standing over him. Suffice it to say, pillow met his face. The bastard growled when he was hit unexpectedly by the pillow.

'Sorry, reflexes," He said not feeling the least bit of remorse for the creepy old guy.

"Get up. We've got a lot of work to do." He snapped.

"Ooh, wonder who I get to kill today," Desmond shot back with cheerful tone as he sat up. Because a prisoner would fight back with the only thing he had. Words. Let his observers think he was helpless. He'd keep solving the puzzle that were the writings and then he would make his escape.

Besides, he liked messing with his foes. It was resistance he could show and if he irritated the old codger enough, maybe he'd make a mistake.

"Don't be so cavalier," Warren snapped again.

Desmond ranked a victory in his column.

"Your ancestors almost had the right idea, Mr. Miles."

Desmond stood and the door beeped to let them out to the Animus room where there was a tray of breakfast by the Animus all set up.

"If the deaths of a few people, evil people, no less, could save the lives of thousands more, well, it seems a small sacrifice."

Desmond looked at the plastic spoon for his cereal and idly thought if he could kill him with the plastic spoon… he probably could but no matter how much his warden irritated him, Desmond didn't want to cross that line. Yet. So he quietly ate his cereal and drank his milk and juice from their plastic cups.

'Damn OJ, where the hell is the coffee?' Desmond silently thought.

"What do you mean, 'almost'?" Desmond asked.

"They didn't go far enough," the old coot replied, one arm behind him while the other swung at the elbow expansively. "To use a rather tired analogy, corruption is no different than cancer. Cut out the tumors, but fail to treat the source and, well... you're buying time, at best. There's no true change to be had without comprehensive, systemic intervention."

Templars and their God complexes.

"Chemo for the masses."

There were a lot of bad people out there and, Desmond would agree, that some people needed to die, if for no other reason than because they were too dangerous. But he knew enough about history to know that if you killed someone, they became a martyr and someone just as terrible would rise to take their place. It was why this war lasted as long as it did.

The dick still prattled on.

"Education, re-education, to be more precise. But it's not easy and it doesn't always take."

Typical if they couldn't kill enough people then there was always the mass brain-washing.

"Let me guess," he dripped sarcasm. "You've got a better solution." Desmond stared at the old codger as he bit into his piece of toast. Quietly, but carefully he asked, "What is it then?"

Warren chuckled, one arm still behind his back, the other waving at the elbow. "Now that would be telling."

Desmond finished his toast and cleaned his hands on the provided napkins, deftly tossing them to the garbage can under the cart that had his food. The old bastard had walked over to his raised desk and stared out the window, sipping his coffee. Of course they would have coffee for themselves. "Hurry up, Mr. Miles, we don't have all day."

Stuffing down a growl, Desmond looked to Lucy who was at the monitor by the foot of the Animus. She glanced at him with humor in her eyes and offered a sympathetic smile. "If you're done eating, let's get started."

He didn't make a move towards the animus instead he began to stretch on the spot and started to do push-ups.

They began to look at him oddly and Vidic growled out. "What are you doing, Mr. Miles?"

"Exercising my body, if I'm going to be on my ass all day and night, least I can get a workout out of it now."

After about 20 minutes of exercising, Warren's patience wore thin and he yelled at Desmond to get into the animus.

Desmond looked at the curved Animus, and frowned.

Desmond looked down at his ancestor's body surrounded by white fog and floating symbols. Desmond was reminded of Tha'lab, he was familiar but he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Just a moment, Desmond, and we'll have everything loaded."

"You know," he replied, "it's really off-putting when I'm surrounded by nothingness and your voices just comes out of nowhere."

He looked down at the robes, noting that there weren't any stains from the battle that he'd just watched his ancestor fight to save his fortress-home. In fact, they were the same pristine white as when he'd first been in this waiting area.

Hm.

That meant there were things this Animus couldn't do. Oh god if this thing didn't allow him to swim.

"Are you ready, Desmond?"

* * *

And it was. For a few precious moments when he was dead, Altaïr was at peace.

Then … then he was coming round, gradually recovering a sense of himself and of where he was.

He was on his feet. How could he be on his feet? Was this death, the afterlife? Was he in Paradise? If so, it looked very much like Al Mualim's quarters. Not only that, but Al Mualim was present. Standing over him, in fact, watching him with an unreadable gaze.

"I'm alive?' Altaïr's hands went to where the knife had been driven into his stomach. He expected to find a ragged hole and feel wet blood but there was nothing. No wound, no blood. Even though he'd seen it. Felt it. He'd felt the pain …

_Hadn't he?_

'But I saw you stab me,' he managed, 'felt death's embrace.'

Al Mualim was inscrutable in return. 'You saw what I _wanted_ you to see… And then you slept the sleep of the dead. Of the womb… that you might awake and be reborn.'

Altaïr shook a fog away from his mind. "To what end?"

"Do you remember, Altaïr, what it is the Assassins fight for?" He asked, pacing around his desk.

Still trying to readjust, he replied, 'Peace, in all things.'

'Yes, in _all_ things!" He stressed the word. "It is not enough to end the violence one man commits upon another. It refers to peace within as well. You cannot have one without the other."

'So it is said.' He answered.

Al Mualim shook his head, cheeks colouring again as his voice rose. 'So it **is**! But you, my son, have not found inner peace. It manifests in ugly ways. You are arrogant and over-confident. You lack self-control and wisdom.'

"Were you not the one to say 'nothing is true and everything is permitted?'?" Altair replied.

"You do not understand the true meaning of the phrase, my child. It does not grant you the freedom to do as you wish, it is a knowledge meant to guide your senses. It expects a wisdom you clearly lack!" He lectured.

A pause before Altair asked. "Then what is to become of me?'

"I should kill you for the pain you've brought upon us. Malik thinks it's only fair – your life in exchange for those that have been lost in the siege.'

Al Mualim paused to allow Altaïr to understand the full significance of the moment. 'But this would be a waste of my time and your talents. Tha'lab has vouched for you as well.'

Altaïr allowed himself to relax a little more though surprised that the master assassin has supported him.

'You have been stripped of your possessions,' continued Al Mualim. 'Your rank as well. You are a novice – a child – once more. As you were on the day you first joined the Order. I am offering you a chance of redemption. You'll earn your way back into the Brotherhood.'

Of course. 'I assume that you have something planned.'

'First you must prove to me you remember _how_ to be an Assassin. A true Assassin,' said Al Mualim.

'So you would have me take a life?' asked Altaïr, knowing his forfeit would be far more rigorous.

'No. Not yet, at least. For now you are to become a student once again. '

'There is no need for this. I am a Master Assassin.'

'You _were_ a Master Assassin. Others tracked your targets for you. But no more. From today on, you will track them yourself.'

'If that is what you wish.'

'It is.'

'Then tell me what it is that I must do.'

'We have been betrayed. Someone was assisting Robert de Sable – one of our own. You must find him and bring him here for questioning.'

'What can you tell me of the traitor?'

"Ah…but that's just it." Al Mualim answered with a cruel irony. "I've given you all I will. The rest is up to you."

Frustration seeped its way into Altair but he bowed his head nonetheless and sought out the traitor who help in the siege of Masyaf.

'I hold here a list. Nine names adorn it. Nine men who need to die. They are plague-bringers. War-makers. Their power and influence corrupt the land – and ensure the Crusades continue. You will find them. Kill them. In doing so you'll sow the seeds of peace, both for the region and for yourself. In this way, you may be redeemed.'

Altaïr took a long, deep breath. This he could do. This he wanted – _needed_ – to do.

'Nine lives in exchange for mine,' he said carefully.

Al Mualim smiled. 'A most generous offer, I think. Have you any questions?'

'Where shall I begin?'

'Ride for Damascus. Seek out the black-market merchant named Tamir. Let him be the first to fall.'

Al Mualim moved to his cage of carrier pigeons, took one and cupped it gently in his palm. 'Be sure to visit the city's Assassin Bureau when you arrive. I'll dispatch a bird to inform the _rafiq_ of your arrival. Speak with him. You'll find he has much to offer.'

He opened his hand and the bird disappeared through the window, as though snuffed out.

'If you believe it best,' said Altaïr.

'I do. Besides, you cannot begin your mission without his consent.'

Altair bridled. 'What nonsense is this? I don't need his permission. It's a waste of time.'

'It's the price you pay for the mistakes you've made,' snapped the Master. 'You answer not only to me but to all of the Brotherhood now.'

'So be it,' conceded Altaïr, after a pause long enough to communicate his displeasure.

'Go, then,' said Al Mualim. Altair began to leave. 'Prove that you are not yet lost to us. Oh and Altair.'

"Tha'lab will be accompany you to monitor your progress and to teach the ways of the brotherhood." Altair could only nod as his pride was wounded yet again that he needed a teacher to help him.

"You have regained a weapon and the hidden blade, take it." Altair sheathed the sword and reached for the hidden blade, attaching it to his wrist. Feeling whole again he set out for Damascus.

Arriving at the stables, he saw that Tha'lab waiting silently on a bench, his head bowed as if in prayer. Making his way over to him, Tha'lab abruptly stood up.

"Peace and safety Altaïr." Tha'lab greeted.

"Peace and safety Tha'lab." Altaïr greeted the master assassin in turn.

"Al Mualim told you that I would be monitoring you and would be mentoring you in the ways of the brotherhood." He put the saddle on his horse and idly began to brush him.

"I already know about our ways." He took his own saddle and Tha'lab turned to him.

"Al Mualim clearly believes otherwise and you must learn what our creed truly means."

"Nothing is true and everything is permitted." Altaïr recited.

"You say those words but do you truly comprehend its wisdom?" Altaïr was going to be respond but the way Tha'lab looked up intensely and his earlier conversation with Al Mualim, made his words die.

"No, I do not." Tha'lab chuckled.

"Then you have made your first step. Come we ride to Damascus."

* * *

And there's the second chapter.


End file.
